Second Street Station

by Lawrence H. Levy

  “In addition to the fifteen-hundred-dollar reward the department is offering for catching the culprit, how does seven dollars a week sound?” he asked Mary, part of him hoping she’d walk out the door.

  “To an unemployed sweatshop worker?”

  Chief Campbell found himself liking Mary. He admired her spirit, her sense of humor, and unlike some men, he admired women with brains. His wife was always a step ahead of him, and that suited him just fine. He couldn’t tell her that her job was to be a dupe, but he could at least stress certain dangers that would be involved.

  “I wouldn’t take this lightly, Mary.”

  “Chief, one thing I’ve always been able to count on is my mind. When I’m put on an even playing field, I can compete with anyone.”

  “There will be nothing even here. You will be a woman in a sea of men working on a high-profile murder case. As far as I can recall, it’s never been done before in Brooklyn, New York City, or any place in these United States. The press will be relentless, and your life will be fraught with danger. You’ll have enemies everywhere, within the department, too, all the way to the top.”

  That was as far as he could go without revealing the commissioners’ plan. But none of it mattered to Mary. This was her opportunity to fulfill her dream. All that was going through her mind was the saying she had seen on Wei Chung’s charm years before.

  Ji qing ru yi, she thought. May your happiness be according to your wishes. Holding her head up, Mary looked Chief Campbell directly in the eye and smiled.

  “I’m used to adversity, Chief. I’m a woman.”

  He had done his part in trying to dissuade her and had failed. Chief Campbell hoped this experience wouldn’t destroy her, but more important, he hoped it wouldn’t kill her.

  9

  It was late morning when the Bowler Hat arrived at the Zuckerman farm after camping out the previous night. He had spent hours the day before searching Pithole and the surrounding area for his horse and buggy. As he plodded along, chastising himself for not preventing the gunfire that spooked his horse, he was reminded of an incident that had occurred during his boyhood in the Cuyahoga Valley of Ohio. His parents had a farm. While his father was plowing the field one day, a rattlesnake spooked his horses and they took off, trampling and killing the family dog, a collie. The Bowler Hat’s parents and five siblings were distraught, and he thought the crying and wailing would never stop. The Bowler Hat was ten, and it was the first time he had realized he was different. He felt nothing, nothing except an overwhelming sense that his family was weak and that he was strong. His mother noticed, and she gave him a good whipping, calling him “an unfeeling godless child.” He never broke; he never cried. That’s when he realized he had a special skill.

  He pulled his horse and buggy up to the farmhouse and stopped as Albert Zuckerman came out to see what he wanted. When the Bowler Hat first laid eyes on him, he found it hard to believe Zuckerman was Jewish. Six feet tall, muscular, with blond hair and blue eyes, he was Romanian with an accent to match.

  He could easily pass for one of us, the Bowler Hat thought.

  Any doubts he had were erased when, after having convinced Zuckerman he had a friendly business proposition, they entered his farmhouse. On the doorway was one of those Jewish decorations. Zuckerman saw the Bowler Hat stare at it.

  “It’s a mezuzah,” he explained as he kissed his hand, then touched it. “It ensures that God will watch over our home no matter where we are.”

  The Bowler Hat smiled. Zuckerman would soon discover that God was nowhere to be found. Hell had come to pay him a visit.

  An hour later, Zuckerman was tied to a chair. He had a broken cheekbone, a smashed nose, and two cracked ribs, but he still refused to sign over his land.

  “Take our offer. You’re going to, eventually,” the Bowler Hat reasoned. “You might as well do it while you still have some semblance of a face left.”

  “Go to hell!” screamed Zuckerman as he spit blood in the Bowler Hat’s face.

  The Bowler Hat reacted swiftly with a fist to Zuckerman’s cracked ribs. Zuckerman cried out in pain, but he wasn’t budging. He looked up defiantly.

  With each blow, the Bowler Hat’s admiration for Zuckerman grew. He was becoming weary from hitting him, and the place in his arm where he had been shot was starting to throb. Yet the Jew was still full of fight. At this pace, he might kill him before he signed over his land. That would be messy, and the Oil Trust didn’t like messy.

  There was a chance of a surprise with every job; some were unfortunate, some fortuitous. What happened next he could only describe as serendipitous.

  A horse and wagon could be heard approaching. Seemingly out of the blue, Zuckerman got anxious. It was the first time he showed any concern at all.

  “Firn avek!” he shouted in Yiddish. “Firn avek!”

  The Bowler Hat was fluent in many languages. Yiddish was not one of them, but he didn’t need a linguist to realize it was a warning. He stuffed his handkerchief in Zuckerman’s mouth and forced it closed with his hands so he wouldn’t make a sound.

  Amelia Zuckerman was an exotic-looking beauty with a lithe, supple body. She was returning from a trip to Titusville, where she had bought food and supplies for the next few weeks. She was excited that the dress she had ordered from Philadelphia had arrived. She and Albert liked to dress for dinner once a week. It was their way of keeping some semblance of civilization in a place where there was none.

  “Albert, come help me unload the—” Amelia stopped after entering and seeing her husband. “Albert!” she screamed in shock.

  The Bowler Hat had never seen such a beautiful Jewess. At that moment, he knew exactly what to do. He punched Zuckerman in the face as hard as he could. Zuckerman’s last conscious moment was filled with his wife’s horrified scream.

  Later, Zuckerman awoke to cold water being splashed in his face. It was a jolt, but it meant he was alive. He soon realized he was still tied to the chair and had been moved to his bedroom. Zuckerman turned his head, then froze, petrified by what he saw. Amelia was totally nude, her hands and feet tied to the four corners of their bed. The Bowler Hat stood next to the bed wearing only his undershorts.

  “Welcome back,” the Bowler Hat said, grinning tauntingly.

  “Amelia!”

  “Amelia. So that’s her name. Thank you for the introduction. It will make what we’re about to do more personal.” He pulled down his undershorts.

  “Albert!” Amelia screamed, her anguish tearing at her husband.

  “Leave her alone! Leave her alone, goddamn you, or…”

  “Or you’ll what?”

  The Bowler Hat climbed on top of Amelia as Zuckerman struggled to get loose.

  “You bastard!” Zuckerman yelled at the top of his lungs, but his anger soon turned to desperation. “Please, leave her alone,” he pleaded. “I’ll sign whatever you want. Just leave her alone.” Then Zuckerman started crying. Not just crying, sobbing.

  The Bowler Hat smiled. His job was done. He just needed to get the bill of sale signed, then leave. He was a businessman, and this was all about business.

  As he started to get up, the Bowler Hat caught a glimpse of Amelia. She looked at Zuckerman with such sympathy, such compassion, such love, that he was overcome with a desire to teach her a lesson. It was almost involuntary when he entered her. Zuckerman’s sobbing and Amelia’s struggling only excited him more. In no time, he was finished.

  Riding away in his horse and buggy, the signed bill of sale in his breast pocket, the Bowler Hat reflected on what had just transpired. He had left the Zuckermans huddled on the floor together, both crying uncontrollably. It disgusted him. The Jew was tough; he’d give him that. But in the end he broke. Most men did. It was just a matter of finding their weak spot. The Bowler Hat was confident he didn’t have one, though he was a little concerned about his transgression. Discipline was a way of life for him. Work demanded he be in total control. In this instance, he hadn’t been. Again, he
questioned himself. Was he slipping? Again, he immediately dismissed the thought as ridiculous and categorized what happened as no more than a perk of the job.

  As he spotted Titusville in the distance, his mind wandered on to other matters, and he headed into town, hoping his train would be on time.

  10

  This was a big day for W. W. Goodrich, and he was determined to look his best. In the morning he went to his favorite barbershop for a shave and a coif. The barber there always did a superb job, especially when advised about the importance of the occasion, and on this day what he had achieved bordered on magnificent. When it came to dress, little thought was necessary. He would wear his favorite suit, the one he’d had specially tailored on Savile Row in London. His derby hat perfectly complemented it, as did his custom-made cane with the solid-gold handle.

  His brother’s funeral had taken place the day before. It was a large affair with an impressive turnout. Of course, most of the attendees had come to pay tribute to him, including political friends and foes and even the mayor. To be fair, there had also been a smattering of Charlie’s acquaintances, but no matter. That was his brother’s moment, and today was his. As he stood on the steps of Second Street Station, everything was going as planned. His proclamation at the funeral that he would have an announcement the next day had attracted much attention. It was everything W. W. Goodrich had hoped it would be. There were about eighty or ninety people crowding the sidewalk and spilling onto the street. It wasn’t the voluminous crowd that had appeared at his brother’s brownstone when word of his murder had spread, but it was a good size. Of greater significance, there were reporters representing all the local newspapers and a reasonable number from Manhattan, too. The others, mere citizens and even the ubiquitous women protesters, also seemed anxious to hear what he had to say.

  W. W. Goodrich had started formulating his speech shortly after he learned of Charlie’s murder. It had to possess the perfect combination of determination, controlled outrage, and grief. The result was magical. He had the crowd in the palm of his hand. W. W. Goodrich had always known he had this ability, an ability that would take his political career far beyond Brooklyn. But opportunity was the key. He had to admit Charlie deserved credit for giving him that, but he knew it required a special man to take advantage of it, and it was more than evident how special he was.

  He was beyond the halfway point of his speech. He had reached a crescendo and was heading toward his fleeting moment of grief, the one that would show his vulnerability yet also assert his manhood. He had rehearsed it over and over and was sure it would net him great results.

  “…And so I, Alderman Goodrich, am offering a reward of thirty-five hundred dollars to anyone who provides information leading to the capture and conviction of my brother’s killer. This is not done out of disrespect to the Brooklyn Police Department. They are fine men who risk their lives for us every day. It is rather done in the belief that one man can still make a difference and also, to be perfectly honest, so that my family…”

  At that moment, the unthinkable happened. A murmur started to rumble through the crowd. At first, he thought it was merely people reacting to his generous offer. But soon he realized that, beyond all reason, he was losing them! He quickly searched his mind. What event in Brooklyn could possibly trump his?

  “There’s Mary Handley!” shouted Amanda Everhart, the leader of the protesters.

  “She’s right!” screamed one of the reporters, and everyone rushed toward Mary. In no time, W. W. Goodrich stood alone on the steps, delivering his speech to himself.

  “One man can still make a difference,” he repeated as loudly as he could in an attempt to recapture his audience, but he was drowned out by the women protesters.

  “Who’s the one? Mary’s the one! Who’s the one? Mary’s the one!”

  Mary hadn’t expected this kind of reception. Chief Campbell had warned her of the notoriety that accompanied the job when he had hired her, but in truth, she hadn’t given it much thought. She was consumed with the joy of having gotten her dream job, and with her concern for Kate. She had checked in on Kate the night before and had told her about the job and how she was going to catch Charlie’s killer. Kate was in no mood to talk. It was understandable. The wound was still very fresh.

  Mary had made an effort to dress well that day, not for her public but rather to make a good impression at her new job. Her choices, though, were very limited. She called what she was wearing “the best of the worst.” It was a pale blue dress, a hand-me-down from her mother that she had personally altered. The color matched her eyes, and it contrasted nicely with her blond hair and fair complexion. Underneath it was a corset, a bustle, and a host of undergarments that made movement difficult.

  “Designers of women’s clothes are either sadists or, at the very least, jealous husbands,” she often ranted about her pet peeve. “They’ve made it abundantly clear that our comfort is irrelevant and that we’re not expected to stray far from home.”

  As Mary saw the crowd approaching and braced for the onslaught, she made a vow to stand strong. She wasn’t going to foster any stereotypes by acting meek.

  The reporters immediately started tossing out questions. “As a woman, how do you expect to catch the Goodrich murderer?”

  “Why, with both hands, of course,” Mary calmly replied as she kept walking toward the police station. Laughter rippled through the crowd. They sensed a newspaper darling, and a barrage of questions followed.

  “What’s your hairdo called? Who made your dress? What brand of perfume are you wearing?” Close to the police station, Mary stopped.

  “Please, this is a murder investigation.”

  “Our readers want the female angle,” a reporter shot back.

  Mary considered his point, then replied, “Tell them I prefer Paris chic but, like them, can’t afford it.”

  Once again there was laughter. Mary paused and looked around. She realized she was good at this. All she had to do was be herself, and they seemed to love it.

  “Now, if you’ll all excuse me, I don’t want to be late for my first day of work.” She gently pushed by several in the crowd who were blocking her access to the stairs and started to make her ascent, reporters still shouting questions as she did.

  W. W. Goodrich made one last, desperate effort to regain their attention. “I’m donating thirty-five hundred dollars,” he shouted, repeating his offer, “thirty-five hundred from my own personal funds to anyone, anyone at all who provides information that…”

  But he had become invisible. After Mary entered the police station, the crowd was still buzzing about her as they wandered down the steps.

  Led by Amanda Everhart, the women protesters resumed their chanting.

  “Who’s the one? Mary’s the one!”

  Always the politician, W. W. Goodrich gritted his teeth and did his best to paste a smile on his face. He arched his back, forcing himself to stand up straight, as he jauntily made his way down the steps, then up the block, all the while haunted by the chanting. Only the occasional clanging of his cane revealed how furious he really was.

  Mary was glad to be inside the police station. Dealing with the reporters was fun, but she was anxious to get to work. The evidence room was in the basement, and as she made her way to the stairs, no one stopped to say hello or to acknowledge her with a nod. She liked that everyone was busy. She wanted to do her work without interruption.

  The basement consisted of a very long hallway off of which were numerous rooms on each side. The hallway was damp and very dark, the only light being flickers seeping out from under the closed doors of the rooms in use. A strong musty odor permeated the air, and though not seen, water could be heard slowly dripping from the ceiling. It was cool in the basement, and the hard stone walls made it chillier.

  Mary stepped off the stairs into virtual darkness, barely able to see a few feet in front of her. A drop of water landed on her nose.

  Nice greeting, she thought as she wi
ped it away.

  She was slowly venturing forward when a figure materialized out of nowhere, startling her. She was relieved to see it was Billy.

  “Oh, Billy, you gave me a fright. I’m looking for the evidence room…”

  But Billy continued on and up the stairs, ignoring her. As she was rationalizing his behavior, another policeman emerged from the darkness and slammed her against the wall as he passed her.

  “Excuse me,” he said as he headed for the stairs. But there wasn’t the slightest hint of apology in his voice. This was no accident, and Mary was realizing that Billy’s slight probably wasn’t either when she was grabbed from behind, a man’s arm tightly around her throat. It was Officer Russell.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I thought you were an intruder.”

  He squeezed a little tighter, then he, too, shoved her against the wall and took off. Mary had had enough. She was about to go after Officer Russell when a door opened across from her, pouring light into the hallway. She instantly turned and assumed her jujitsu stance, ready to take on all comers. It was Sean.

  “A bit tense on our first day, sis?” he said, holding up his hands to show he meant no harm. “You need to calm down.”

  “Not until I know why I’m being bullied,” she demanded, standing her ground.

  Sean turned serious. “So it’s started. You know I can’t protect you, Mary.”

  “Protect me from what? Tell me. What kind of dilberry is this?”

  “Dilberry, is it?” he said, his emotion rising. “We’ve worked like dogs, hoping one day to finally be promoted, and you get the big case just because you’re a woman.”